


Jaundice

by lanri



Category: Supernatural
Genre: AHBL, AU, Angst, Gen, Oneshot, Sam Winchester's Demonic Powers, Temporary Character Death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-08
Updated: 2015-11-08
Packaged: 2018-04-30 16:34:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,478
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5171360
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lanri/pseuds/lanri
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>One sentence, and Sam doomed his brother. But he would make it right.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Jaundice

**Author's Note:**

> A very very very old piece that I recently revamped and finished off. Not my best work, but I figured I might as well post it. Enjoy.

Sam scowled. “Dude, if you want so much food, then come in to order it yourself. I can’t remember all of this.” He got out of the Impala and heard Dean follow.

“Sheesh, what’d you go to Stanford for?” Dean muttered a few other things Sam couldn’t hear, at which Sam deliberated on the merits of pushing him into the puddle a few feet away. Probably not worth it.

“Pie will be tough to eat in the Impala,” he reasoned as Dean widened his stride to catch up with him. Sam hid a smirk. Sometimes there were perks to being taller than Dean.

“You do have a point,” Dean admitted before throwing Sam an unexpected grin. “Unless you feed it to me by hand.”

The puddle was looking like a better option but they were already at the door. “Uh huh, Princess,” Sam drawled, opening the door. “After you, m’lady.”

Dean made a face and jabbed an elbow in Sam’s midsection as he entered. Sam retaliated with a flick on the ear, and if they weren’t in a public place, it would’ve escalated. With a glare, Dean promised him that their feud wasn’t over before turning to the waiter taking orders. Sam waited until he was done talking, drumming his fingers along the plasticky counter.

“Dean? I want to go swimming.”

Dean blinked at him. “I’m sorry, I had something in my ear. You what?”

Sam rolled his shoulders. “I’m tired of this gross weather. Let’s head south. Break into someone’s backyard and use their pool.”

Dean’s incredulous expression slid into something that Sam would never call fond, because that was chick flick territory, but he was allowed to call it happy.

“Sure, dude. Whatever you want.”

The normal buzz of the diner’s noise seemed to fade momentarily, and Sam tilted his head. Only time his ears popped was in high altitude.

Dean frowned. “Sam, do you smell that?”

“I—”

Black smoke passed in front of Sam’s eyes and he jumped back.

As soon as it was gone, Sam was left staring at Dean.

Dean who had a thick line of red at his throat, spilling down his shirt—he would be so mad, that was his favorite shirt—and he was toppling over, and Sam couldn’t . . .

The smell of sulfur was overwhelming, and everything dropped away.

* * *

Sam opened his eyes, and felt relieved. Man, he hated visions.

“Dean?” he mumbled, levering himself upward, rough splinters pinching at his palms. That was strange.

None of the usual symptoms after a vision were present—headache, nausea—also strange.

His vision. Okay, so for the next couple days they would avoid diners. Dean would wait in the car while Sam grabbed their food. That was all.

“Dean?” he tried again, his voice sounding desperate to his own ears.

Sam cased the area as a way to not think about the amount of blood he’d seen gushing from Dean’s throat. He was somehow in a ghost town. Dean would like it, it had a definite ol’ west vibe to it. Sam had probably been snatched by a ghost from the town’s past. Dean was probably on his way. Probably . . .

“Hey! Hey, anyone there? Help! Hey!”

Sam scrambled to his feet and headed for the noise, heart sinking with the knowledge that it wasn’t Dean’s voice. Not that Dean would’ve cried out for help under any circumstances whatsoever.

“Hold on, I’ll get you out.” Sam broke the lock easily and found Andy staring at him.

“Sam, what . . . how? What is going on? Where are we?”

Biting his lip, Sam glanced around again, repressing the urge to shout for Dean. “I dunno, man. What’s, uh, the last thing you remember?”

Andy cringed. “Um, my last bong load?”

Sam blew out his breath. “Right.”

Dean was probably dead.

No.

It didn’t make sense.

Why after all this time?

Why?

Screams jolted Sam out of his mind yet again and both he and Andy rushed in that direction without saying anything.

It was Ava, and piece by piece, Sam was dying inside. All of the demon’s kids. This was really happening.

Which meant Dean was really dead.

There were five of them total. Sam, Ava, Andy, Jake, and Lily. Sam forced himself to explain the demon’s plan and most of them didn’t believe him. The little patience he had—which was barely anything, Dean was dead—snapped.

“Believe me or not. I don’t care. I just had to watch my brother die in front of me. So live in your little happy place where there aren’t any demons, and I’ll see you in hell,” he snarled.

“Sam,” Andy breathed. “Dean’s dead?”

Sam grit his teeth. “Yes.”

“I’m so sorry.”

Sam laughed bitterly. “Yeah, we’re all sorry. I say the yellow-eyed demon needs to show himself now so I can rip him to pieces.”

Two of them, Jake and Lily, exchanged glances like Sam was insane.

Sam didn’t really care. The demon was playing a game with them, and Sam was done playing by the rules.

* * *

The second Sam saw him, he didn’t even think, he just leapt with a growl . . . and passed right through him.

“Sam, Sam, Sam. It’s a dream, kiddo. Use your noggin.”

Sam quivered with barely-restrained rage. “You killed Dean. I’m going to rip you apart.”

The demon smirked. “Brave words, little soldier. That’s what your daddy said while I was possessing him. Winchester bravado, it should be famous. Well, that and going to hell.”

“Let’s talk face to face, and we’ll see who goes to hell,” Sam snarled.

“About that. You need to kill the rest of these if you wanna do that. America’s best demon soldier. Only one will win.” The demon grinned.

Sam twitched. “Somehow I’m not impressed.”

“Oh, you will be.”

“I think I’ll wake up now.” Sam caught the slight surprise on the demon’s face before he opened his eyes.

* * *

“It’s just the two of us now. I’m sorry, but I wanna live. That means I have to kill you.”

Sam regarded Jake silently.

Jake shifted his weight onto the balls of his feet and Sam did as well.

“I’m sorry,” Jake said again.

“You’re taking the demon’s side. So I’m not sorry,” Sam said coldly.

Jake was a soldier, and had demon-gifted enhanced strength.

But he hadn’t grown up sparring Dean Winchester.

Sam side-stepped Jake’s predictable frontal attack and sliced at the arm holding the jagged metal, forcing the other man to drop it. A quick jab in between Jake’s ribs and he was down. Another penetration in the heart to ensure he was dead.

Sam had never killed a human being before. Some distant part of himself cried out.

The rest of him needed to find Dean.

The power was suddenly there, at his fingertips. Spilling another person’s blood was a powerful ritual in many cultures. Sam embraced it with a shudder, sorting through the new power like it was a file cabinet in a morgue.

He wasn’t sure how he did it, but one second he was standing in Cold Oak, the next he was at the diner’s door.

Police tape crossed the door, and Sam absently ducked underneath, taking in the blood. He could smell Dean’s blood.

Dean wasn’t there, of course. Sam dragged his fingers through the blood on the floor and closed his eyes, concentrating.

A shriek of surprise heralded his arrival at the morgue, and Sam stared at the tech, who was staring at him.

“Go to sleep.”

She went to sleep.

It was like being someone else. Sam had once had nightmares that turned out this way. Getting called to identify a body, finding Dean. It was his fault.

The amulet. The ring. The jacket. Sam put on each article of clothing like he was pretending to be Dean. The jacket was a little tight across the shoulders. And the amulet felt like a hundred pound weight.

“It’s okay, Dean,” Sam whispered. “I’ll get you back. No matter what it takes.”

* * *

“Sam Winchester. The winner. Champion.”

He was now able to recognize that he was in a dream and sat up slowly. “Hello. You know my name, how about you give me yours?”

The demon seemed taken aback. He blinked and puffed himself up. “Azazel.”

Sam nodded, pleased. Names had power.

“So here’s the deal, kiddo”—Dean had called him that—“you’re meant for great things. You will lead my army to victory, and the world will be ours.”

Sam knew laughing would irritate Azazel, and so he laughed, the sound strange and unnatural coming from his throat.

“Need I say what I can do to you?” Azazel snarled.

“You have no leverage,” Sam said. “You slit your leverage’s throat. If there was one thing in the world you could’ve used against me, Dean was it. Congratulations, you’ve lost your commanding officer.” Sam smiled at Azazel’s outraged face and woke up.

* * *

“Hey Bobby.”

Bobby went for his shotgun straight away before realizing it was Sam.

“Sam?”

“Yes.”

“Boy, you and Dean went MIA for so long, I thought . . .” Bobby paused, his eyes passing over Sam once. Sam wondered what he saw. “Sam, where’s Dean?”

“One of those new-fangled cryogenics places in California. Needed his body preserved,” Sam replied distractedly, moving for Bobby’s bookshelf.

“What?” Bobby gasped.

“Yellow-eyed demon killed him. I’m going to get him back.” Sam brushed his fingertips over the old books. He had once seen one written specifically about demons and the gates to hell. Sam had hid it in a corner after their dad’s death, in case Dean got too interested in it.

“Sam, this is all wrong. What do you think you’re doing?”

“I told you that already,” Sam said, mildly irritated. There it was. Just a small black book. The most powerful ones were always the least conspicuous.

Bobby grabbed his arm. “You can’t do that.”

Sam’s drew himself up to his full height, and Bobby took a step back, staring fearfully at his face. “Try and stop me,” he hissed.

* * *

“I gave you those powers you flaunt about. Did you really think you could run from me?”

Sam struggled against Azazel’s invisible bonds. “Did you really think I cared one way or the other?”

Azazel’s eyes turned yellow. “You will lead my army. Or I will take one innocent child every day and kill it in front of you.”

Sam shoved with his mind and broke free of Azazel’s restraints. As soon as he was free, he dove for his bag, yanking out the spray paint and finishing the line of the design that was mostly hidden underneath the carpet.

Azazel laughed. “That won’t hold me.”

Sam smiled flatly. “It’s not supposed to.”

He sliced his hand open and began chanting.

Exchanging a high-power demon for a way into hell. Simple.

Azazel didn’t go without a fight though, managing to yank Sam inside the circle. Instantly, Sam could feel the draining power that was supposed to be taking Azazel, but was now uncertainly trying to pick a target between the two of them.

Sam caught hold of the gun—Dean’s gun—in his waistband and yanked it out, firing a couple shots into Azazel’s host. It was enough to let him escape, and Sam collapsed outside the circle as Azazel writhed.

Azazel . . . melted. It was kind of disgusting, and smelled like sulfur. His remains disappeared into the ratty motel carpet as Sam watched, and the whole area became blackened. Sam tentatively reached a hand out, and as soon as his hand crossed the line, he could feel the intense pull.

Gateway to hell. Sam finished his spellwork, tying a line between himself and the gate—the same spell Ariadne had once given Theseus to fight the Minotaur.

Sam stepped in the circle.

* * *

Sam wasn’t sure what he had been expecting. Fire and brimstone? Possibly. He had definitely expected to battle his way through some demons or monsters.

Instead, he was in a room with Dean, who looked . . . bored.

“What do you want?”

“Dean?” Sam asked shakily.

Dean narrowed his eyes. “I was wondering when you would start torturing or whatever you do in hell. C’mon, though. Sam? Really?”

Sam laughed, and could hear the hysteria in his own voice. “Dean, I did it. I made it to limbo, or wherever this is.” He approached, and Dean backed up.

“What’s your game here?” he snarled.

“It’s me, Dean. Promise. I did it.” Sam reached out. This time, Dean seemed to resign himself and brace for whatever he thought was coming.

For the first time since Dean had died, Sam let his guard down and wrapped Dean in a hug.

Dean’s voice was bewildered. “Okay? So is this like a wish-fulfillment thing before you take it away?”

Sam shuddered with the effort to keep back tears that he had held in check for so long. “I am totally saving that as ammo for later, dude,” he said thickly. “I always knew you wanted to hug. You were just acting too manly.”

He was shoved away violently, and he fell back on his rear.

“Okay, enough! I give, do whatever you want to me, just stop with this charade.”

Sam forced himself to pack away the emotions for later. They weren’t out of hell yet. “Fine, I get that you won’t believe me. We’ll just have to get out of here, and then you will.”

Turning away from Dean was like ripping open a hole in his brain. Sam examined the blank wall. The power was a lot easier to access down here, and Sam breathed deeply, involuntarily lifting his hand.

The walls crumbled, but demons were waiting.

Sam swore and stepped in front of Dean. “Right. Easy getting in, difficult getting out,” he muttered to himself. Absently, he swiped at his the blood dripping from his nose.

They attacked, and Sam focused on the power. It was simple. One by one, their eyes flashed black and then bright before they dropped down.

“C’mon, Dean,” he hissed, grabbing Dean’s arm. Dean looked like he was about to shake him off, but glanced down at Sam’s hand and submitted.

The demons came, still. One got its claws into his chest, but Sam managed to destroy it before it dug too deep.

“We’ve gotta get out of here,” he said hoarsely. Dean was silent, at his side, staring at Sam like he was waiting for him to turn into a demon. The thought struck Sam that maybe he had.

The ground was somehow sticky. Sam struggled to follow Theseus’s thread. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a flash of yellow.

“You’re mine,” Azazel hissed. Sam met him, but was thrown back, an unseen hand around his throat. Sam squirmed like a fish on a hook, trying to use his powers to grasp Azazel, but the demon was incorporeal, a malevolent force that he couldn’t fight.

“Sam!”

Out of the corner of his eye, Sam saw Dean throw himself into the smoke. Azazel’s hold on Sam loosened just enough—he lashed out with his mind, dissipating Azazel’s form, even as the demon tried to grasp Dean.

“Let’s go!” Sam yelled. He grabbed Dean’s hand, pulling him frantically along. Theseus’s thread was growing weak.

“Sammy, are you real?”

“Run now, ask questions later,” Sam said. When he reached for his powers again, it was more difficult to find them. They were failing him.

“This way!” He thrust Dean in front of him, out of the gate.

Theseus’s thread snapped. Sam managed to get one hand on the gate, dangling in the darkness. A part of him wanted to let go. He had gone too far—if John had wanted to kill him before, he definitely would have now. Dean would probably agree. Demons belonged in hell. Sam was a demon.

“Sam!” A hand grasped his. Sam looked up at Dean, staring.

“Dean. Let me go,” he whispered.

“Nuh uh, Sam. You come with me or I’ll jump right back in.”

Sam was pulled up by Dean. He found himself in the motel room, outside of the blackened circle on the carpet.

“It’s done,” he said.

And then he passed out.

* * *

Sam had been trained at an early age to check out his surroundings before waking up fully. Everything was quiet, and lighting was dim. He observed Dean silently—his brother was hunched over, in a position that almost seemed like he was praying.

He tried to move, and pain flared up in a hot wave. His chest was on fire; his head felt like it would explode.

“—ammy, c’mon breathe, you’re gonna be okay, just breathe. I have pain killers, here, look at me.”

Sam blinked through tears and stared up at Dean. “Y’r out?”

“Yeah, kiddo, you did it.” Dean pressed his shoulders down when Sam tried to sit up. “Easy. I had to stitch up your chest.”

“Dean,” Sam breathed. “You’re alive.”

“Yeah, kiddo. Woke up in some freezer though, thanks for that. Had to call Bobby to figure out what was going on.”

“But you pulled me out,” Sam said. “How—“

“Pulled you out? What are you talking about?”

Sam tried to speak again, but a cough stopped him, and pain ripped through his chest again.

“Whoa, whoa. Everything’s under control, Sammy, take these pills and take a nap, okay?”

Sam managed to nod. Before the pills knocked him out, he slurred, “are you okay?”

“I’m always okay, Sammy,” Dean said.

* * *

Sam’s fingers trembled as he touched the mirror. For the first time in days, Dean had allowed him to get up and use the restroom on his own. Sam was regretting his insistence on independence.

“Sam, you okay in there?”

It took Sam two tries before he could clear his throat. “Yeah, Dean, fine.”

His haunted yellow eyes stared back at him in the mirror. Fine? Not even close.

“We need food,” Dean said when he emerged from the bathroom. “Whatcha in the mood for?”

Sam swallowed. “I saw some Chinese down the road.”

Dean’s frown was minute. He knew, as did Sam, that it was one of the few that didn’t deliver. “You gonna be alright on your own?”

“I’ll just take a nap,” Sam lied.

“Okay, man.”

As soon as Dean was gone, Sam got to work. He had at least 20 minutes before Dean got the food, and he had to be quick. The devil’s trap was first, encircled by a ring of salt. Sam kept himself on the inside.

“Here it goes,” he muttered. The Latin rolled off his tongue—practically a second language with how well he knew it—and it took him only a few minutes to complete the exorcism. There was no change, though, and Sam felt his heart rate kick up. Two other exorcism variants did nothing to him.

“C’mon, c’mon,” he muttered. His eyes fell on the hunting knife on the table. He knew a ritual that targeted evil. It required blood, though. Lots of blood.

“—forgot my freakin’ wallet, what kind of stupid . . . Sam?”

The blade was cold on his skin.

“Sam, put the knife down.”

“Needs to be done,” Sam mumbled.

“No, Sam, it really doesn’t.” Dean’s voice trembled.

Sam looked up at his brother. “Look at my eyes, Dean. I need to get it out of me. This ritual will do it.”

“You don’t know that. It could kill you,” Dean argued. He took one step forward.

“I’m evil, Dean!” Sam’s breath caught in his throat. “I did awful things, Dean, and I need to be stopped. I got you killed! Dad told you—“

“Dad was an idiot! I don’t care what you did, or what you are, Sammy. You’re my brother, and that’s what matters.”

Sam closed his eyes, and when he opened them Dean was kneeling in front of him, hand over the knife.

“Come on, little brother. Trust me, please. You didn’t kill me.”

“I told you to come in with me,” Sam whispered.

Dean’s green eyes met his yellow ones steadily. “And it was my choice to listen, Sam. It was nobody’s fault except for that demon. And you showed him you were stronger than him.”

“But my eyes—” Sam whispered.

“We’ll get you some cool sunglasses. No problem.”

Sam let the knife slide through his hands. For a moment, as it rested in Dean’s hand, he imagined his brother gripping tightly and plunging it forward, like he was supposed to do. But instead Dean threw the knife across the room. “I’m sorry,” Sam said.

“Nothing to be sorry for.” Dean drew him up. “Well, except for being an idiot and trying to kill yourself. That, you can be sorry for.”

For a long moment, Dean stared at him. Sam had no idea what he was thinking.

“Now how ‘bout you come with me to get food, huh?”

“Yeah,” Sam said. “Yeah, I can do that.”


End file.
